Strokes
by Souris
Summary: Sydney finds out something about Vaughn. And then the fireworks begin.
1. Stretching the Canvas

Strokes  
By: Souris  
Feedback: souris@vartanho.com  
Category: Romance. VSR, natch.  
Rating: PG-13 on ff.net; NC-17 ultimately on www.vartanho.com  
Summary: Sydney discovers something surprising about Vaughn. And then the fireworks begin.   
Author's Note: If you look past the smutty fluff, you'll find ... fluffy smut! This is going to be just SydVaughn porn, people. Frankly, there's a sad dearth of it. Major thanks to Hillary for the beta-read -- it would probably be better if I had taken all her suggestions.  
  
  
Perspectives Art Gallery  
Los Angeles  
  
Sydney sighed and tried to appreciate the painting of a riotously colored arrangement of fruit in front of her. Francie had dragged her and Will here in hopes of finding some new decoration for her restaurant, but so far nothing had struck her fancy -- or her budget. Usually Sydney enjoyed looking at artwork, but this afternoon she was restless and found it hard to concentrate, in spite of the prospect of the four days' vacation for Independence Day in front of her. It didn't help that Will and Francie were snorting and giggling over a rather ribald sculpture in the background. She turned her attention to the next painting ... and gasped.   
  
It was of a woman with shocking red hair that had fallen forward, obscuring half of her face. In one hand, she held an alabaster mask that hid the rest of her features. All that remained in view was one amazingly lifelike brown eye, which seemed to gaze on the viewer with a heady combination of sadness, desire and determination. For a moment, she simply couldn't breathe.  
  
"Wow, that looks like Amy!" Francie's voice, even though it was practically in her ear, seemed oddly distant. "Will, come here -- doesn't this look just like Amy?"  
  
Sydney barely heard her roommate's final words, transfixed by the image of her one-time self staring back at her. She didn't need to see the small "MCV" signature in the lower right corner to know whose hand had wielded the brush. There was only one person in the world who could have painted that image with such detail and emotion ... and longing.  
  
"Eh, it's just the hair," Will scoffed, coming up to them. "Amy's eyes are blue."  
  
"I guess so," Francie said. "Still, it's really good. It's kind of haunting. She looks so sad. But strong, too, you know?"  
  
"'Unattainable.'" Will read the title of the work off the card beside it. "Well, there you go. Obviously an unrequited love."  
  
"Hmm. Yeah, you can tell. He loves her, but he can't have her. She's hiding from him. God, that's so tragic. But maybe she loves him, too. I can kind of see it in her eyes. Well, eye. What do you think, Syd?"  
  
"I don't believe it," she breathed, shaking her head slowly.  
  
"Aw, you don't think she loves him back? Party pooper! Since when did you become such a cynic?"  
  
But Sydney was no longer listening. "I'm going to buy it," she said.  
  
Will and Francie looked at her strangely. "Sorry, Syd, it's not for sale." Will pointed to the name card.  
  
"No, he wouldn't." She smiled, and a warm giddiness spread throughout her body. She could feel her cheeks flushing, and she turned her head so that Will and Francie wouldn't see. "She means too much to him."  
  
There were a handful of other works by him, smaller landscapes with titles like "Printemps en Fleury" and "Jardin de Grandmere," and a whimsical painting of a chubby white bulldog lying on a colorful, circular rug. That one was called "Dreaming of Duchess."  
  
She stared at them in wonder, each brush stroke a revelation. It amazed her that those hands she had seen so many times, that had held her gently and had killed a man to get to her, had produced these paintings. What other secrets did Vaughn hold?   
  
She imagined him standing before a canvas in an old T-shirt and jeans -- bare feet, definitely -- hair tousled, forearms flecked with paint, as he brought her image to life. She felt as if every atom of her being was on fire. It took all of her self-control not to stroke the surface of the artworks, to touch the paint that he had laid down.  
  
The desire, the *need* to have one of those paintings was overwhelming. Leaving the gallery without one in her possession was unthinkable. There were many things that she had craved in her life, had longed for with a single-minded purpose, but at the moment, they all seemed pointless and unimportant in comparison.  
  
The smaller ones were for sale, and she knew without hesitation which one she wanted the most. The landscapes were lovely and wistful, but the one of his dog contained the most of him, his affection for Donovan obvious. "This one's for sale, though," she said. "So I'm going to buy it instead."  
  
"Syd, what are you, crazy?" Will asked. "Two hundred fifty bucks for a picture of somebody else's dog?"  
  
"Yes. It's adorable." They didn't understand her insistence, of course. They couldn't ever know how much it meant to her to be able to have a part of him in her apartment, a constant reminder of his presence in her life.  
  
Just yesterday, she had been going through her box of pictures, looking for images to put in a new collage frame, and she had found herself instinctively searching for a picture of Vaughn to put with her pictures of Francie and Will and Amy. And then she had remembered with a stab that she didn't have any, *couldn't* have any. The knowledge had filled her with an ineffable ache.  
  
But now she could have part of his soul. 


	2. Mixing the Colors

Warehouse  
City of Industry  
  
Vaughn was relaying what the CIA had decrypted from the disks that Sydney had retrieved in Brussels during her last mission, but she couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. She couldn't seem to stop looking at his hands, imagining them applying paint to canvas in sure strokes ... imagining them on her.   
  
She felt herself flush. God, what was she doing? It certainly wasn't as if she had never thought of him in that way -- he had starred in more than a few extremely detailed dreams that had left her catching her breath or sighing with pleasure as she awoke. But somehow, seeing his painting of her, seeing his want represented in bold colors, had brought her own firmly suppressed desires clamoring to the surface. Knowing that he had committed her image to memory and had then spent untold hours lovingly transferring it to canvas -- it was overwhelming, intoxicating, erotic. It was something she couldn't ignore. Images of him, of *them*, had been forcing themselves into her thoughts almost constantly since the previous afternoon at the art gallery.  
  
"Sydney, are you OK?" he asked, interrupting himself and eyeing her with concern.  
  
She started. "What? Oh, I'm fine. I just ... I think I need this vacation."  
  
"You deserve it." He smiled. "And as a matter of fact, I needed to let you know that I'm going on one, too."  
  
"Oh. Where? When?" She was shocked at the immediate rise of not-quite-panic welling inside her. He'd hardly ever been out of her reach before -- at least when it was *him* who was going somewhere -- and the concept unnerved her.  
  
"I'm leaving tonight for a long weekend in the mountains. My Aunt Trish -- I told you about her -- and Uncle Jason have this amazing cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains off Route 2. They're going to Paris, and she called and offered it to me for the holiday. Barnett has been after me to take some days off, and it seemed like good timing, since you won't be going on any missions." He didn't mention that Trish had offered it to him and his girlfriend. When he had told her that he wasn't seeing anyone, she had simply laughed and admonished "a handsome boy like you" to not let the opportunity go to waste.  
  
"That was nice of them." Why did she feel this twinge of pain? For a wild, frantic moment, she wondered if he could be taking someone with him. Alice's face flashed into her mind.  
  
"You should see this place. You'd never believe a house like that was up there. There's this dirt road that cuts into the woods just after this old-fashioned country store. Since it's Trish, there's a sign of a castle in the clouds. Which is about apt, frankly. You think you're driving into the utter wilds, and then you round a corner and, boom, there's this *mansion* perched on the edge of the mountain. My uncle's a record producer, and he only lets his *top* artists stay there."  
  
"It sounds wonderful."  
  
"It is. I'll probably be bored out of my mind up there by myself. But Donovan loves to run around and chase squirrels. Now, it may seem like the middle of nowhere, but there's cell-phone service. So if you need me for *anything*, anything at all, don't hesitate to call. I can be back in L.A. in three hours."  
  
His words calmed her fears. It would just be him and his dog. And he wouldn't be *too* far away. "I'm sure I'll be fine without you. Sloane's even promised not to call me or Dixon in for the next four days."  
  
He laughed. "Don't tell me he's got a patriotic streak!"  
  
She snorted in response. "Only for appearances, I'm sure."  
  
"No doubt. So, are you doing anything with Francie and Will on your vacation?"  
  
She noticed the slight pause before he said Will's name and was barely able to suppress a grin. "Francie'll be at the restaurant, of course, and Will and his sister are going to some family reunion in Oakland. So it'll just be me. Probably bored out of my mind, too."  
  
"You should...." He paused and stared at her for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the floor. His voice seemed a little strained when he looked back up and finished, "You should go somewhere fun."  
  
For a moment, she thought that he was actually going to ask her to come with him, and her heart leaped at the prospect, only to fall a second later. Of course he wouldn't ask her to go with him. It wasn't as if she *could*, after all. "Yeah. Maybe I will." She forced a smile, her eyes following his hands as he picked up his briefcase. 


	3. Picking Up the Brush

Strokes, Chapter 3: PIcking Up the Brush  
  
  
Off Route 2  
The next afternoon  
  
I cannot believe I am doing this, Sydney thought as the trees moved past the car windows. I am insane. I must be. This was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing she had ever done in her life. Then again, part of her whispered, it might be the smartest.  
  
She had awoken that morning, looked at the sunlight streaming through her windows and thought, "I'm going to surprise Vaughn." She had showered and packed a bag before the complete folly of the idea truly hit her. Then she had dithered around the apartment for a couple of hours, alternately cursing herself for even entertaining the possibility and then deciding to go anyway, dammit. Finally, about one, she had stood in front of his painting of Donovan for a good five minutes. I have to go, she thought. It's insane, it's selfish, it's potentially deadly, but I'll never forgive myself if I don't. She wrote Francie a note -- "Bank trip. So much for vacation. Not sure when I'll be back. Could be a day, could be all weekend. Love, Syd." -- grabbed her bag and left before she gave herself the opportunity to change her mind again.  
  
She'd had little trouble finding the turnoff to his aunt and uncle's cabin. Though there was no street name, the painted wooden sign that he had described was clearly visible. The road was narrow but even, and she could have driven faster, but the doubts that had returned to her mind caused her foot to sit lightly on the gas. If there had been any place to turn around, she might have used it. But there wasn't, so she kept going forward, slowly but steadily. And then there was a bend in the road, and a magnificent, rambling, one-story house appeared as if from nowhere.   
  
There was no longer the possibility of turning back.  
  
Despite its grandeur, the house seemed to nestle among the trees as if it belonged there. There were windows everywhere, dozens of them, and she couldn't help but blink in amazement at the two glass-topped turrets on either end of the house. It really was like a mountainside castle.   
  
She brought her car to a stop, turned off the ignition and took a long, deep breath. Her heartbeats were so fast, they seemed to tumble over one another in her chest. I am a spy, she thought. This isn't even *remotely* the scariest thing I've ever done.  
  
And yet, she didn't remember her stomach being quite so knotted when she was jumping off a 30-story building in Helsinki with Arvin Sloane a stone's throw away.  
  
But she had made her decision, and there was nothing to do now but follow through with it. Without another moment of hesitation, she got out of the car and marched to the front door.  
  
There was a large brass knocker in the shape of a dragon, and she smiled at Trish's whimsy. How many visitors did they expect up here, really? She rapped it heavily against the door, producing what seemed like the loudest sound she had ever heard. She waited for him to open the door, her body practically vibrating with nervousness and excitement. And waited. And waited. She knocked again, even harder, but there was still no answer.  
  
He has to be here, she thought, glancing back at his car parked beside hers. Had he seen her and decided not to answer the door? Was he hurt? Was he not alone after all? Did he just want her to go away? Her heart constricted, and her doubts about being there were completely pushed aside by the all-consuming need to see his face.  
  
Suddenly, a white bulldog bounded -- or, more precisely, chugged -- out of the trees and up to her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He let out a couple of short barks, but they seemed more a greeting than anything else, as he then began to dance excitedly around her feet, nudging her leg with his nose, his stubby tail wagging furiously.  
  
"Hey, Donovan," she said, bending down to stroke his head. "Where is he?"  
  
"Did you catch one, Donny?" His voice sent a wave of relief through her, followed by a stab of pure desire as he strode into view. He was wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a gray T-shirt underneath a blue-and-green flannel shirt, and a wide grin split his face. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Then he caught sight of her, and he came to a sudden stop.  
  
"Sydney! What's wrong? What's happened?" He practically ran to her side then, his brow furrowing in instant worry.  
  
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I just.... Well, I was bored, and you said you were going to be bored, and I thought, well, why should we be bored by ourselves when we could be bored together? Not that I think being with you would be boring. I'm sure it wouldn't be. I mean, we could entertain each other." Oh, God, Sydney thought, I sound like Marshall. I am babbling. Kill me now. Just put me back in the car and drive me off the mountain. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come, this was a *really* bad idea. I mean, this could get us killed. Although I was super-careful and came the long way and doubled-back and drove a rental instead of my car. I'm certain I wasn't followed. But this was still pretty stupid, right?"  
  
For a long moment, he just stared at her, clearly stupefied, until she was ready to scream at him to say something, yell at her, laugh in her face, anything. Then he smiled, a pure, sweet, joyful smile that was worth the drive up there by itself. "Yes," he said, "It's pretty stupid. But ... I'm really glad to see you."  
  
Relief washed over her, and she smiled back at him, completely at a loss for words.  
  
"Well, now that you're here, you might as well come in." He grinned. "Besides, I don't think Donovan will let you get away."  
  
---  
  
AuthorÕs Note: IÕm glad you all like it so far! I think you can probably tell where this is going. ;-) There will be one more chapter on ff.net, and then itÕs off to www.vartanho.com for the final NC-17 chapter. 


	4. The First Stroke

Strokes, Chapter 4: The First Stroke  
  
Sydney sat down on the sofa and brought her knees into her chest, sipping from the glass of excellent riesling that Vaughn had filched from his uncle's wine cellar. She felt warm and comfortable and content. Her earlier doubts seemed so far away.  
  
True, there had been a few awkward moments initially, as they had been unused to interacting outside of work. Sentences had trailed off uncertainly into nervous smiles, and he had seemed unsure where to tell her to stash her things when she had brought in her bag, finally directing her to a richly appointed bedroom done in reds and golds.  
  
When she had returned after freshening up to the large living room that ran the length of the front of the house, he had sheepishly suggested that he should probably take a trip down to the store, since he had brought along only frozen dinners, cereal and bags of snacks. Somehow, the revelation that he was still a typical guy had broken the ice -- especially after she retrieved the three shopping bags of groceries that she had stopped for from her car.  
  
Since it was almost dinnertime, they had set about preparing her favorite standby meal, lemon chicken with roasted vegetables. She smiled in memory. It had been *fun* moving around the kitchen with him, laughing, teasing, occasionally tossing baby carrots or grape tomatoes at each other. Their time together was so often tinged with stress, fear, sadness and danger, it had been exhilirating to simply be casual and carefree with each other. In fact, it had felt positively domestic. Ruthlessly, she suppressed the wishes that came to mind, the images of countless other evenings spent together in worryless comfort with no thoughts about being seen. They had three days now, all to themselves, and she was going to savor them without thinking about the future. After all, she had never even expected this much.  
  
The door opened and Donovan ran in, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor, followed by Vaughn. "Good for the night, buddy?" Vaughn asked, patting him on his back. He straightened up and smiled at Sydney as she set down her wine glass, and she felt a shiver all through her body. Even though he and Donovan had been outside for only a few minutes, she seemed to have forgotten just how shockingly gorgeous he was. It wasn't the first time she had been caught off-guard by him. Sometimes, she would walk into the warehouse, and her first sight of him would almost take her breath away. It just made it all the more devastating that he honestly didn't seem to notice just how handsome he was. She didn't even think that he realized how attractive she found him.  
  
She smiled back at him and said, without thinking, "I missed you."  
  
His grin widened, and he sat next to her on the sofa, kicking off his shoes. "That was my plan all along. I slipped Donovan a doggie biscuit to go along with it."  
  
She laughed, and then they sat in silence for a moment. It seemed full, almost heavy, burgeoning with countless unspoken emotions. And yet it wasn't awkward. Finally, he turned to her and said, his voice earnest, "Syd, I'm really glad you came."  
  
She nodded. "Me, too."   
  
Suddenly, a loud BOOM broke the silence. Sydney immediately jumped to her feet, all her senses on alert. "What the hell was that?!"  
  
"Hey, they're a little early this year." He stood and grabbed her hand, tugging her along with him as he moved across the room. "It's OK, Syd. C'mere, I want to show you something. You'll love this, I promise."  
  
He led her to a sturdy ladder at one corner of the room, then flashed a grin at her as he dropped her hand to take hold of a rung. "Follow me," he said and then began to climb. Confused, she complied, her mind not too preoccupied to notice the athletic ease with which he moved -- or the way the denim hugged his ass.   
  
The ladder led up to one of the windowed turrets that she had seen from the outside, and as she reached the top, her eyes widened in surprise. The floor of the tower was completely taken up with an oversized mattress festooned with countless colorful pillows. Almost the whole of each wall was taken up with a large window, and even more amazing, the ceiling was in effect a large glass pyramid. It gave the illusion of being outside; in every direction she looked, there was black sky and stars.  
  
He held out his hand, and she took it, scrambling beside him onto the mattress. She opened her mouth to exclaim in wonder, but before she could get a word out, the darkness exploded in bursts of red, white and blue.  
  
She gasped and looked around at the shimmering lights that seemed almost close enough to touch.  
  
"The neighbors -- well, they're about two miles away, but up here, that's neighbors -- own a fireworks company, and they put on an amazing show every Fourth of July and New Year's Eve. I don't know *how* they get a permit for it, but they always do. So far they haven't burned down the mountain." He grinned at her rapt expression, her face lighting up in a pink tint as another explosion lit the sky. "It's pretty cool, huh?"  
  
"Vaughn, it's *incredible*."  
  
"You haven't seen anything yet. Lie down. It's going to be a while, believe me."  
  
She flashed a grin at him and complied, flopping backward with an almost childlike eagerness. He followed suit, and they lay side-by-side, silent except for occasional murmurs of approval or "Wow, that was a good one!" comments. She had always loved fireworks, but these were some of the best she had ever seen, each one seemingly more brilliant than the last. The spokes of color appeared to surround them.  
  
After a particularly impressive burst that swirled and then faded away in dozens of starlight points, she turned to him excitedly. "Did you see that one?" she asked.  
  
But he wasn't looking at the sky. He was gazing at her, head propped on his hand, and the expression in his eyes made her catch her breath. "No, I missed it. I had a better view."  
  
She forgot about the fireworks. His eyes were glittering at her, his desire for her naked in their depths, and her body flamed in response.  
  
This was it. This was why she had risked everything to come here, why turning back would have been an unforgettable mistake, why she had chosen to give in to something that had somehow become an inevitability. This was why she was, in spite of everything against them, exactly where she was supposed to be, where she wanted to be.  
  
"Michael," she said, deliberately, the name strange and intoxicating on her lips, like some honeyed foreign alcohol.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes searching hers, no doubt between them what was about to happen.  
  
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."  
  
-------------  
  
AuthorÕs Note: OK, thatÕs it for fanfiction.net. The entire story (along with the final chapter in all its smutty glory) will be posted at http://www.vartanho.com/fanfic/souris1.html in the next few days. 


End file.
